


Dear Father Christmas (The Boy Done Wrong Again)

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear Father Christmas,</p><p>It’s strange that I have more cause to believe in you now that I’m in my mid-twenties than I did when I was a child.  I didn’t think magic existed then either, but now I know that it does. I wonder if it’s the same with you?</p><p>There’s nothing that I want for Christmas that could be wrapped in a box and put under a tree. But if you are as magical as they say you are, there is one thing I want that could only be accomplished by a true Christmas miracle.</p><p>I want Draco Malfoy back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mypetelephant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypetelephant/gifts).



_Somewhere in the Arctic Circle  
December, 2005_

Dizzy heard his master’s call, not from without, but within. It was cheerful voice ringing inside his head, summoning Dizzy to his master's side. The elf dropped the wooden train he was painting and disappeared with a crack.

He reappeared in a rustic sitting room. Elaborately embroidered stockings were hung over a hearth, where a blazing fire crackled. Mountains of snow and ice could be seen through the windows, but none of the long winter’s bitter cold encroached upon the warmth of the room. An old man with snowy white hair and a full beard sat at a writing desk. His heavy, red velvet coat hung from the back of the chair, the fluffy white trim on the bottom brushing against the floor.

“Sir?” the elf asked as he bent at the waist and sank into a low bow. “You have orders for Dizzy?”

The man looked at him over the top of his golden spectacles, the bright blue of his eyes twinkling merrily behind the lenses. “Have you ever heard of a wizard called Harry Potter?” he asked in a deep voice that befit a man of his impressive girth.

“Yes, sir. Dizzy has, sir,” said the elf. “Harry Potter is known to elves of all sorts. He is a friend to our kind, a hero to our brethren.”

The man pulled a piece of parchment from the inside pocket of his coat and opened it, glancing over the text with a thoughtful frown. “I have received a most interesting letter from Harry Potter this year. I know it is unorthodox considering his age, but his reputation as a good man precedes him. His words have touched me.” 

He held out the letter. Dizzy took it and began to read. 

“Make sure Harry Potter gets his Christmas wish this year, would you?”

Dizzy’s large eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and his lower lip began to tremble. “Sir would entrust such an important and difficult undertaking to Dizzy?” he asked, his voice quivering.

“Of course,” said the old man kindly. “You are one of my most trusted elves. While these sorts of wishes aren’t the kind we usually seek to grant, I have full faith in your abilities. See to it that Mr Potter gets his Christmas miracle. But don't let him know that you've been tinkering. An elf's presence must never be known,” he added with a wink.

A wide smile stretched across Dizzy’s grey face. “Yes, sir!” he cried. “It will be Dizzy’s honor, sir!” He slipped the letter into the pocket of his green trousers and disappeared. The man turned to his desk and resumed his work, his well-worn quill scratching out a long list of names.

**

_One Week Earlier_

“Do you think he’ll like this?” Teddy asked, holding up a messy drawing of nine brown blobs and large stick figure in a red hat. 

Harry looked into the eager face of his godson and felt his heart break slightly for the poor orphaned boy with absolutely no artistic talent or shame about that fact. He ruffled Teddy’s hair and said, “I think he’ll love it, mate. But you forgot Rudolph’s nose.” 

Teddy made a hamfisted grab for the red crayon and scrawled a small circle over one of the brown blobs. He slammed the crayon down on the table with a definitive thunk. “All done,” he declared, beaming proudly and holding his drawing up for Harry’s final approval.

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket, and with a quick little charm, Rudolph’s hastily scribbled nose began to glow. “Wicked,” said Teddy, in an impressive impersonation of his Uncle Ron. He studied his drawing for a few seconds more before tossing it over his shoulder and grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment. “It’s time to write our letters to Father Christmas,” he told Harry. “I’m going to ask for a pet dragon. Gran said I can’t have one, but if Father Christmas gives me one, she can’t say no, can she?”

“I reckon not,” Harry agreed. “But you might want to ask for something else, just in case. I don’t think there are a lot of dragons in the North Pole.”

“Father Christmas has a flying sleigh,” Teddy pointed out, as though Harry were the child and Teddy a bored adult tired of explaining the obvious. He rolled his eyes, a gesture Harry didn’t think he’d picked up from Uncle Ron, but more likely Cousin Draco. “He can go wherever he wants,” Teddy explained, “and that includes places with dragons.”

Harry wasn’t about to argue with the logic of a seven year old, so he just hummed a noise of agreement and began to pick up the papers Teddy had left sprawling across the kitchen floor. It was a good thing Draco wasn’t here to see the chaos. As much as he loved having his godson come to visit, the child wreaked havoc upon the flat.

The crayon in Teddy’s hand paused in its movements. “Why aren’t you writing your letter, Uncle Harry?” he asked.

“Grown-ups don’t write letters to Father Christmas.”

“That’s not true!” Teddy protested, looking outraged. “How else will Father Christmas know what to bring you? If you don’t write one, you might not get any presents at all!” 

There was real horror in Teddy’s voice and Harry couldn’t help but laugh. He decided to humor the boy, “All right, pass me some parchment.” 

Harry accioed a self-inking quill from the junk drawer. He felt silly enough writing a letter to Father Christmas as it were, he wasn’t about to do it in crayon as well. His mind slowly emptied as he watched Teddy write. Teddy’s face was scrunched in childish concentration and the tip of his tongue stuck out from between his teeth. 

Teddy obviously had no problems thinking of presents he’d like to receive: a pet dragon, a potions play set, an aviatomobile. It was a bit more difficult for Harry, who had everything he needed and more than enough galleons to spend on anything he might want. But if Father Christmas were real and Harry could actually have _anything_ for Christmas, what would it be?

When Harry set his quill to parchment, the words began to flow.

**

_Dear Father Christmas,_

_This is the first letter I have ever written to you. My Aunt and Uncle, who raised me, never gave me any Christmas presents, never mind letting you take all the credit for something they might have bought. My cousin always got loads from you though, but he was too stupid to notice that “your” handwriting was exactly the same as his mum’s._

_It’s strange that I have more cause to believe in you now that I’m in my mid-twenties than I did when I was a child. I didn’t think magic was real then either, but now I know that it is. I wonder if it’s the same with you?_

_There’s nothing that I want for Christmas that could be wrapped in a box and put under a tree. But if you are as magical as they say you are, there is one thing I want that could only be accomplished by a true Christmas miracle._

_I want Draco Malfoy back._

_I know I should be trying to move on. It’s been months now, but I still love him. And I think he still loves me too. I’m almost sure of it. Almost. We didn’t break up over some petty argument (although we had more than our fair share of those) or from lack of affection. We broke up because he still feels obligated to fulfill some imaginary duty to his family -- to become the patriarch of another generation of Malfoys, to marry some pretty Pureblood girl and continue his line._

_I see pictures of him in the newspaper sometimes. He’s been engaged since they day after we broke up, and his wedding is supposed to be “the” society event of the Spring. He told me that he could learn to be happy with her, but he doesn’t look very happy in the pictures they print. Someone so young shouldn’t have so many frown lines._

_I know I don’t technically have the right, since I’m not his boyfriend any longer, but I worry about him._

_He’s done so many stupid things to please his father, I don’t think he knows anything else. So if I can’t have him, my secondary Christmas wish would be for him to at least find the peace that has always eluded him. If it can’t be with me, then at least with his future wife._

_Sincerely,  
Harry Potter_

_PS. I don’t know what happens to these letters. I assume they just get chucked in the bin unopened, but I’ve also heard that some get forwarded to charities that give underprivileged children the toys they want for Christmas. If that is the case and this letter has been read by a disgruntled employee of the Royal Post, I apologize for subjecting you to my bitter whinging. Hope your holidays are looking better than mine! Oh, and ignore what I said about magic being real. I'm probably just some nutter, anyway._

**

 

Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t usually an embarrassing mother, but she didn’t usually drink four glasses of high proof Advocaat within an hour either. 

“Have I ever told you about the Christmas when we gave Draco his first toy broom?” she asked with a hiccough. 

Draco shot Pansy a glare that said in no uncertain terms that she was not to indulge his mother’s behavior. Naturally, Pansy ignored him. “No, what happened?”

Narcissa’s eyes were already shining with unshed tears, her hand clutched her breast as she shook with silent laughter. “He got so excited. He was jumping in place and shouting, absolutely screaming with delight. And then all of sudden he stopped and his little knees tucked in. He grabbed his crotch and cried, _‘Oh, Mummy! I think I did a wee!’_ ”

Draco tried to ignore the heat flaming his face. He tried to concentrate on his breathing and to remind himself that he truly loved his mother and that all children had accidents on occasion. Unfortunately, Pansy’s shrill giggle wasn’t allowing him to focus on those calming thoughts. “That’s a very amusing story, Mother,” he said tightly. “But don’t you think it’s about time you excused yourself to bed?”

“Oh, Draco, don’t be rude,” said Pansy. “We haven’t finished trimming the tree.”

“And Pansy hasn’t had a single glass of Advocaat yet!” 

Pansy’s cheeks tinged with pink. “Oh, thank you, Mrs Malfoy, but really, I can’t.” 

“Uh oh,” said Narcissa, in a sing-song voice, “I know what that means.”

“Oh no, nothing like that!” Pansy said quickly, her faint pink blush deepening to a dark crimson. “I’m just counting my calories. You know what the holidays can do to a witch’s waistline.”

“Bollocks to that!” Narcissa declared, and both Draco and Pansy looked mildly horrified to hear such coarse language come from such a refined woman. Narcissa turned to Pansy, and slurred, “You’ve always had a lovely figure, dear. And a wizard likes a witch with a little meat on her bones, you know.” She gave the other woman a knowing look and tapped the tip of her nose. “Draco’s father did at least,” she continued, ignoring Pansy’s cringe. “Probably why he always spent so much time over at the Bulstrode’s,” she added in a dark undertone.

Pansy stood briskly and smoothed down the front of her robes. “On that note, how about we get the topper on the tree? Then off to bed, all three of us.”

Narcissa didn’t look as though she were fooled by Pansy’s hasty change of subject, but she stood as well, swaying slightly on her unsteady feet. Draco kept a protective hand on the small of her back -- just in case -- as Pansy levitated the sparkling snowflake shaped ornament to the top of the tree. 

The three stepped back to admire the Douglas fir that towered above them. Fairy lights bathed the tree in a golden white glow, reflecting off the many gold and silver ornaments that hung from the tree's boughs. Narcissa slipped her hand around Draco’s waist and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “It’s perfect,” she said. 

Pansy stayed behind to clear up the clutter while Draco steered his mother towards her bedroom. He offered to help her into bed, but she shooed him away, “I’m drunk, darling, not disabled.” 

He kissed her goodnight and turned to leave, but she caught him by the hand before he could reach the door. “Are you happy?” she asked.

The question took him by surprise and Draco could do nothing but stare at her. The skin beneath her red-rimmed eyes looked paper-thin, and he was surprised to note how much she had aged since his father’s death. She stood, staring back at him with unfocused eyes, awaiting his answer. 

“Yes, Mother. Of course I am.”

Narcissa dropped his hand. “Liar,” she said, turning into the empty darkness of her room. “You’re a liar, Draco. Just like your father. You’ve always been just like your father, so good at lying.”

Draco sighed. “Mother...” he said imploringly. 

“I just want you to be happy,” she said, her back still turned to him. “Whatever it is that would make you happy, darling. Even if it’s not this life, I want you to do it.”

Draco began to count backwards from ten, reminding himself yet again how much he loved his mother. “I assure you, I am perfectly content.”

Narcissa huffed. He thought he heard her mutter something under her breath, but she said nothing more. 

Draco backed out of the room and shut the door.

Pansy was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her winter cloak already pulled over her robes and his draped over her arm. He took it from her and slid it on. “Sorry about that,” he said. “She’s not use to the spirits.”

Pansy dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hands. “Nonsense, she’s a charming drunk. Better than my own mother at least. When Protea drinks, all she does is pick. Pansy, you’re getting fat. Pansy, you’re going to become an old maid. If only Cedar were still alive, we’d have at least one child we could be proud of.” She snorted, “I’d take a few embarrassing stories from childhood over being constantly reminded that I can never live up to the memory of my dead brother any day.”

Draco winced, remember the night of his engagement party, when he’d overhead Protea Parkinson berating her daughter for not working hard enough to catch his fancy. “Astoria is two years younger than you,” he heard her saying, her critiques slurred and harsh. “You’re running out of time, dear daughter. No one is going to marry a cow whose milk has soured.”

They walked down the gravel drive to the end of the anti-apparition wards in a companionable silence. “Would you like to come over for a glass of wine?” asked Draco, not quite ready to be alone yet. “I’ve got a meeting with my accountant in the morning, but not until ten.”

Pansy declined, pointing out that some people chose to work for their living. She kissed him on the cheek, turned in place, and disappeared with a crack. Draco stared at the empty space where she’d been, then back to the manor, devoid of any life besides a few old house-elves too stubborn to leave service and his mother, who was likely drooling all over her Egyptian cotton pillowcase by now. 

The eerie silence of the still Wiltshire night followed him back to his lonely flat.

**

Harry carried two cups of tea into the living room. Hermione sat on the settee, rocking an old bassinet. Her daughter’s face, squishy and red, stood out against the light pink blanket in which she was swaddled. Hermione looked tired, but happy, and Harry bent low to press a kiss on the top of her head.

“Where’s Ron?” he asked as he set one of the cups on the coffee table in front of her. 

“Diagon Alley. Said he had some last minute Christmas shopping to do. Which means, of course, he’s doing _all_ of his shopping at the last minute.”

“Sounds about right,” Harry laughed. “Have you finished yours yet?”

Hermione groaned. “I bought everything by owl order this year. I didn’t get a chance to go to London and do it myself. It’s all arrived, but I haven’t had time to do the wrapping. Rosie’s been colicky,” she explained. “We’ve tried everything, even those silly old midwives cures that Molly suggested, but nothing’s helped.”

The baby seemed to be sleeping soundly at the moment, but Harry had heard her pained wailing echo through the fireplace during his Floo calls with Ron frequently enough to know that this was a rare spell of a peace for the new parents. 

“I’m supposed to be back at work at the beginning of January, but I just don’t know if I can do it,” Hermione continued, looking harassed. “With the baby and the new house, it just seems like too much sometimes.”

Harry laid his hand atop Hermione’s, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. She had always been an anxious person, but motherhood had sent her into a state of harried panic that was usually reserved for important deadlines at work. “It’ll be fine,” he assured her. “The holidays are always stressful, even without a newborn. And if you have to take more time off, the Ministry will be fine. The government isn’t going collapse if you’re away a few more weeks.”

Hermione gave him a wan, watery smile. “I know that, Harry. But you know me, I like to worry.”

“Well, don’t,” he said. “Not about work, and not about wrapping those presents either. Show me where you’ve hidden them and I’ll do it for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that! I’ll find the time, I’m sure. Christmas is still a week away.”

He just looked at her, his face stern and impassive, until she relented with a roll of her eyes. “Give me a second to hide yours first,” she said as she pushed out of her seat.

Harry was surprisingly handy with wrapping charms, although he put more concentration into his work for Hermione than he did on his own presents. She had a finer eye for detail and he knew that she would be too polite to mention any mistakes, even if they bothered her. He could hear her bustling in the kitchen, preparing a quick dinner as he worked.

There was a sharp rap at the window, and then the gentle coo of an owl. “Harry?” Hermione called from the kitchen. “It’s for you!”

Harry jogged into the brightly lit kitchen, just in time to see an unfamiliar barn owl swoop out of the window. A pot of red pasta sauce simmered on the cooker and filled the small room with a wonderful herbal aroma. He grabbed a wooden spoon from the worktop and stole a taste, ignoring Hermione’s chides of disapproval. She tossed the letter on the table and pushed him out of the way with her hips, reclaiming her space by the stove.

The small piece of parchment that lie innocently on the table was nondescript, but Harry paused in his reach for it when he noticed the handwriting, a familiar swirling script that he hadn’t seen in months. A lump formed in his throat. Tentatively, he reached out and flipped the letter over, pulling his hand away quickly as if the paper could burn. The ends were closed with a wax seal; he didn’t have to look closely to know which family crest it would bear.

“It’s from Draco,” he said aloud, whether to himself or Hermione he didn’t know. He heard the clatter of the wooden spoon as it hit the worktop and then Hermione was behind him, standing on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder.

“You should open it,” she said quietly. 

Harry nodded and gathered his courage. 

He ripped through the seal and read the letter. It was short, concise, and to the point, so very like Draco himself. Hermione was radiating nervous energy behind him, dancing from foot to foot. “Harry, what does it say?” she asked.

His voice sounded distant and detached as he answered, “He wants to meet. Friday night at the Leaky Cauldron. He doesn’t say why.”

When he turned to look at her, Hermione was worrying her lip and tugging on an errant strand of her hair. “Are you going to go?” she asked.

The last time he’d tried to talk to Draco it hadn’t ended well. There had been screaming, accusations, and maybe a tear or two. Harry had stormed off in such a rage that he was worried he’d splinch himself if he attempted to apparate. He remembered arriving home and slamming the door shut so hard that a framed photograph on the wall behind him rattled. It was a picture of Harry and Draco together, taken the night Hermione and Ron announced they were going have a baby. They were happy and laughing, leaning against each other for support after one too many toasts to Hermione’s health. 

Harry remembered looking at it that night and not being able to believe how so much could have changed in so little time. The glass shattered under the force of his fist and cut into the skin of knuckles. The frame fell to the floor, as broken as their relationship. It laid there for almost a week before Harry could bring himself to look at it long enough to vanish the broken glass. He’d tucked the photo into an old, leather-bound copy of Quidditch Through the Ages that Draco had forgotten when he’d packed up his things. 

Harry had only taken it out twice since that night, both times when he’d had enough alcohol with dinner to allow himself to give into the masochistic urge to mourn what he’d once had. 

He couldn’t bear to relive that, but he couldn’t deny the tiny spark of hope that flickered dimly in the deepest recesses of his heart. He knew this meeting wasn’t going to end how he’d like, but he couldn’t refuse the invitation, just in case. 

Not trusting himself to speak, Harry only nodded. 

**

A mild atmospheric charm kept the Manor’s conservatory warm, even in the dead of winter. The house-elves had prepared an impressive spread of crustless sandwiches and miniature cakes for afternoon tea. Draco watched with mild revulsion as Astoria spooned a fourth generous portion of sugar into her tea cup, stirring until the granules dissolved into the milky liquid. She placed the spoon daintily on the saucer and brought the drink to her lips. When she lowered the cup, Draco could see the thick, greasy imprint that her lip gloss had left on the china.

“Are you alright, dear?” She asked, her voice as sickly sweet as her tea. “You look as though you might be ill.”

“What?” asked Draco. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts it took a moment for her words to catch up to him. “Oh no, I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you bring the seating charts with you?”

Astoria set her cup back on its saucer gingerly. “Of course. I made a few adjustments since we spoke last, but nothing that I think you’d object to.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a few pieces of parchment, spreading them across the table in the empty space between them. 

Draco craned his neck and pretended to look over them, but he couldn’t say with any real conviction that he gave a damn who sat next to her old Aunt Hilda. Astoria could have invited the Dark Lord’s rotting corpse to the wedding and he wouldn’t have known, considering what little attention he’d been paying to the arrangements. She was the bride and in the end it was her wishes that mattered. The only thing Draco cared about was getting it over with.

He nodded his approval. Astoria reached across the table and took Draco’s hand in hers. “It’s going to be a beautiful ceremony, I promise.”

Draco could feel his palm begin to sweat. He tugged his hand free of her grasp and wiped his slick palm against the leg of his trousers. “I have no doubt,” he said with a tight smile. “You have excellent taste.”

“As do you, my love,” Astoria trilled. “After all, you chose me.” 

Draco’s smile was strained, but at least he made the effort. 

Astoria didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, which allowed Draco to breath a sigh of relief. He listened dutifully as she continued to discuss the wedding plans, flitting from topic to topic like a hummingbird darting between flowers. In the months they’d spent courting, Draco had learned that it was best to let her prattle on uninterrupted; she usually ran out of steam eventually.

If it weren’t for the gentle tapping of an owl’s beak against the room’s glass door that came ten minutes later, he feared she might never have stopped. Astoria leaped to her feet with childlike enthusiasm, calling out, “I’ll get it,” as she hurried to the door that opened into the gardens. A tawny barn owl hopped into the room, but refused to relinquish the small piece of parchment in its beak to her. Instead, it gave a gentle hoot and took to the air, landing on the table next to Draco and dumping the delivery into his lap.

“I haven’t got any owl treats out here,” he told the bird as he gave it a quick scratch on the top of the head. The owl hooted again, this time with noticeable disdain, and took off, flying out through the open door.

Draco tore into the letter with haste, eager for an excuse to divert his attention away from the endless ramblings of his future bride. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. He recognized the quick, businesslike quill-strokes immediately and felt as though all the air had been knocked out of his chest. The letter crumpled between his fingers as his hands clenched, curling into fists as he fought the wild sweep of nausea that threatened to overtake him.

“Draco?” he heard Astoria ask, her voice sounding distant and concerned. “Draco, are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale.” He forced himself to look up and into her alarmed face. “Is something the matter? Who is the letter from?”

Another moment passed before Draco could remember how to breath properly, but he found himself regaining control over his body with each forced breath. “It’s nothing,” he lied, hoping his voice sounded confident and steady. “Just a letter from my solicitor. He wants me to come into the office and sign some things tomorrow.”

Astoria sat down with a relieved sigh. “You had me scared half to death. You looked like you were about to have a fit!”

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Draco said, feeling steadier with each lie. “I just haven’t been feeling at all well today. Would you mind if we cut tea short this afternoon? I think I’d better lay down.”

She looked put out, but nodded. “Of course, darling. We wouldn’t want you taking to the sick bed so close to the wedding, now would we?” 

Draco had to bite his tongue to prevent himself pointing out that the wedding was still five months away and precisely what was bound to make him ill, if anything was.

Their walk down the Manor’s drive was long and awkward. The goodbye kiss once they reached the gates was perfunctory and just a bit sticky. Draco apparated first, landing clumsily in the middle of his empty sitting room. He went straight for the liquor cabinet in the corner. If Harry wanted to meet with him on Friday, he needed to drink himself into oblivion tonight.

**

The Leaky Cauldron was as dim and dingy as ever. Harry usually found the stained table tops comforting in their familiarity, but tonight he couldn’t stop from rubbing at a sticky ring that had been left by a previous patron’s drink. His own pint of liquid courage sat beside him half-empty, drops of condensation dripping down the sweating side of the glass to leave another layer of grime on the table.

His leg bounced uncontrollably. He could barely believe how nervous he was. There was a time, not that long ago, when being with Draco seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Draco’s presence had once had a calming affect, the ability to talk him down from even his most ferocious of rages. But now it felt as though his heart was going to beat out of his chest and into his throat, where he would vomit it onto the table in front of him. 

That’s how it felt, that is, until he actually saw Draco walk through the door. When their eyes met across the pub, Harry felt his pounding heart stop, skipping more than one of its furious beats. 

Draco moved quickly, with an almost feline grace, towards the booth where Harry was sat. Harry reached for his pint with shaking fingers as Draco slid onto the bench opposite him. 

They sat in a tense silence, each staring at the other expectantly, until it seemed that Draco had had too much and snapped, “Well?” 

“Well what?” Harry asked, blinking back his surprise at the razor-edged sharpness to Draco’s voice.

“I got your letter,” Draco said. From his pocket he fished a folded piece of parchment, which he tossed onto the table. “What did you want to see me about?” 

“What did I -- Draco, _you_ sent _me_ a letter asking to meet you here.” Harry pulled out the letter he’d received from Draco and tossed it onto the table next to the one Draco claimed he’d received. “What did _you_ want to see me about?”

Draco snatched the letter and scowled. “Is this some sort of joke?” he asked as he looked it over. “Although I will say that whoever you got to forge my signature did a damn good job.”

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on already. Not even an entire minute together and they were going to fight. “I swear this isn’t a joke. At least, not one that I’m in on.”

Draco’s scowl softened to a frown. “Is Granger meddling again?” he asked.

“No,” Harry sighed, “Hermione was there when it came by owl. She was just as surprised as I was, to be honest.”

The fight visibly melted from Draco’s shoulders. He reached out and snatched Harry’s pint, drinking the rest of the warm lager in one steady gulp. “There has obviously been some sort of mistake,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I should go.”

Harry opened his mouth to stop him, but suddenly there was a woman at the edge of their booth, blocking Draco’s exit. She had two glass mugs in her hand, each filled with a thick red liquid that had a mountain of whipped cream and a peppermint stick on top. “For you,” she said brightly, placing the the mugs on the table, “our new Christmas special.” 

“We didn’t order these,” Harry said, looking the woman over from head to toe. She had bright, curly blonde hair that seemed to bounce even when she didn’t move. Her face was round, open and friendly, plastered with a blinding smile that looked as though it would be better suited on a Hufflepuff schoolgirl than a barmaid. He didn’t recognize her, but then again, he hadn’t been to the Leaky in weeks and it wasn’t uncommon for the employees of the ancient pub to change without warning. 

“They’re on the house,” she said with a mysterious smile. There was something strange about her eyes, Harry thought, though he couldn’t quite place it. They seemed too knowing, too old, for a woman of her age and demeanor. “Drink up, lads. It’s time to get into the holiday spirit!”

Draco gave Harry a questioning look. Harry responded with a challenging one of his own. “Having one drink with me won’t kill you,” he said. “We’re both adults, I think we can handle it.”

Draco bit his lip, still on the verge of bolting. He seemed to be having an internal battle of wills, but finally he nodded and sank back into his seat. “One drink,” he agreed. “One calm, reasonable, expletive-free drink.”

“Well, I don’t know about expletive-free,” Harry said as he used the peppermint stick to scoop up a large chunk of whipped cream. “From what I remember, you’ve got quite the dirty mouth.”

Draco’s cheeks turned red. A little thrill shot down Harry’s spine when he realized how Draco had misinterpreted his innocently meant comment. He felt emboldened and wrapped his lips around the stick of peppermint, sucking the whipped cream away with unnecessary obscenity. Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Harry felt victorious. Even if it meant nothing, even if it was just a little bit cruel to be so teasing, Draco’s reactions meant that there was still something there, even if it was only the basest form of attraction.

“So tell me,” Harry said, pretending not to notice the way the tension between them had mutated and thickened, “what’s new in your life?”

Draco pulled out his wand and vanished the heap of whipped cream from the top of his drink. He glared at it sullenly, then said, “You know what’s new in my life. Don’t play dumb, Harry. It doesn’t suit you.”

With a sigh, Harry followed Draco’s form and banished the rest of his whipped cream as well. He took a tentative sip, pleasantly surprised to find that the odd-looking drink was both rich, hot, and had the faint taste of chocolate and mint. A warmth spread throughout his body, from fingertips to toes.

“Fine,” he said. “I was trying to being polite, but if you’d prefer I was direct: how’s the wedding coming? I assume it’s still on, though I haven’t received my invitation yet.”

Draco snorted and reached for his own mug. “Of course it is, and don’t expect one either. The last thing I need is a scene.”

“You think I’d make a scene?” Harry asked in mock-offense. “When have I ever done something like that?”

Draco’s lip curled in a wry smile. “No. I _know_ you would,” he said. “You always were a drama queen, Potter.”

On an impulse, Harry kicked Draco under the table. Nothing harsh, nothing malicious, just a playful little kick to demonstrate his amused displeasure. “Prat.”

Draco returned the kick, along with a laugh. “Berk.”

The speed of Harry’s beating heart had returned to its racing pace. He felt light and unencumbered. Here he was, sitting in a pub, having a drink and an actual conversation with Draco Malfoy, the man who had ripped out his heart and tap-danced upon it only six months ago, and it was almost alright. They were teasing each other as they once had, laughing and exchanging empty insults, as if everything between them hadn’t gone terribly wrong. They had even mentioned the very thing that had brought about their destruction. 

“What about you?” Draco asked after another sip of his drink. “Any grand new adventures in the life of the great boy wonder?”

Harry thought about it. Not much had changed for him in the past half year, besides the monumental shake up that his split with Draco had caused. By comparison, everything else seemed too inconsequential to mention. “Hermione had the baby,” he said, because the thought of his two best friends as parents was still settling. 

Draco’s grin faltered for a moment. “I heard,” he said. “I wanted to send my congratulations, but I wasn’t sure it would be welcomed.”

Something inside Harry’s chest cracked, just a little. “I’m sure it would have been,” he said gently. “You broke up with me, not them. Hermione and Ron are your friends too.”

Draco stared at his drink as though it had personally offended him. He grabbed it and took an impressive swig. When he set it down, his expression had cleared. “Yes, well, the three of you are a bit of a package deal,” he tried to joke, a hesitant smile creeping back onto the sharp planes of his face. “Tell them I send my best?”

Harry nodded, “Of course.” 

They slipped into an awkward silence. Harry tried to avoid looking at Draco; he didn’t think he could bear to his own miserable expression mirrored on Draco’s face. He concentrated on his drink, letting the ambient noise of the slowly filling pub wash over him as the alcohol settled in his stomach and crept into his bones. 

“This is quite strong,” said Draco, breaking the tense moment. He indicated his mug, which was nearly empty. Harry took a large sip of his own drink, trying to match Draco’s pace, although he secretly didn’t want to finish any time soon. As soon as their mugs were empty, this brief truce would be over, and Draco would be out of his life once more. “I think there is some sort of potion in this,” Draco continued, frowning into his drink. “I feel most peculiar.”

“Nah,” said Harry, although now that he thought about it, the tingling sensation he felt his toes wasn’t normal after just one pint and a spirit, “you’re just a light-weight.”

Draco drew up in his seat, his scandalized expression full of righteous indignation. “I am not! I could drink circles around you, Harry, and you know it.”

Harry smirked, raising one eyebrow in an expression he’d stolen shamelessly from the man who sat across from him. “Wanna bet on it, Malfoy?”

Draco’s lips pinched together into a tight line, but Harry could see the edges of the smile Draco was trying to fight. “Trying to get me drunk, are you?” he asked. “Hoping to take advantage?”

Harry forced himself to maintain eye contact. He knew, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, that it was imperative in that moment. “Maybe,” he drawled.

Another charming blush stole across Draco’s features, but his face remained carefully schooled. “That’s too bad,” he said, “because you’re the one who is going to be crawling out of here on his hands and knees.”

“As I remember it, you rather like me on my hands and knees,” Harry said, surprised by his own audacity.

A note of matching surprise registered on Draco’s face for a moment, and Harry thought that he could never get tired of watching Draco’s expressions shift. For someone who was convinced he had an uncrackable poker-face, Draco was incredibly transparent.

“All right then,” Draco said, knocking the rest of his drink back with one final gulp and bringing his empty mug down to the table with a decisive thunk.“Finish up, slow-poke, I’ll go get round two.”

Draco shifted, preparing to push out of the bench and make his way to the bar, but the perky blonde barmaid was back, blocking his exit once again. This time she had two brandy snifters in her hands, filled with a opalescent green liquid that shimmered when it caught the firelight. 

“You’ll be wanting another round then,” she said rather than asked, and set the glasses on the table in front of them. 

“I don’t drink absinthe,” Draco said, eyeing the green drink with trepidation.

“As you shouldn’t!” she laughed. “This isn’t absinthe though, I promise.”

“Another seasonal special then?” Draco asked, with obvious hesitation still in his voice.

“Aye,” said the barmaid. “Although this one is unique. Father’s secret recipe,” she said with a wink. “Better not drink it too quickly. It packs quite a punch.”

Harry pulled a glass towards him and took a tentative sip. An indescribable burst of flavor exploded on his tongue. It was neither sweet nor savory, but cool and refreshing. There were hints of that same minty flavor they’d found in the first drink, but it was subtle and cooled by the chill of the liquid. Floral notes lingered in the recesses, but never threatened to overpower. It might be difficult to drink this slowly, he thought, as there was no burn or aftertaste, going down smoother than water.

Draco was watching him expectantly. Harry set his glass back on the table and nodded up at the barmaid. “It’s good,” he said. “Really good.”

“Excellent,” she chirped, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “Have a happy Christmas, lads,” she said with a small curtsy.

“Odd bird,” Draco remarked as he watched her disappear into the crowd. He turned back to his drink and raised it to Harry in toast. Harry raised his own glass and together they drank.

“Merciful Merlin,” said Draco, once he’d set his back on the table. “How is her father not a millionaire? That’s divine.”

Harry made a noise of agreement and took another sip of his drink, just so he had something to do. Now that the strange barmaid with the old eyes had left and he was alone with Draco once more, he could think of nothing to say. 

That wasn’t quite true, he could think of a hundred things he wanted to say, and they were all burning on the edge of his tongue, but he knew none of those topics would be acceptable. 

Draco didn’t seem to have the same problem, because he began to speak rapidly, rattling on in a manner that would seem quite uncharacteristic to people who only knew the stoic front he presented in public. “This rather reminds me of a drink I once had back when we were in school. Pansy stole it from her father’s cellar after her brother’s funeral. It was elf-made, she said. Went down easy, warmed you up from the inside despite the perpetual chill. It was quite curious though, had a bit of Veritaserum in it, I always assumed. Because as soon as we had finished the small bottle, Pansy was spilling all sorts of secrets. Did you know her first kiss was with Millicent Bulstrode?” he asked with a laugh. “They used to practice kissing in their dorm in third year! Can you believe it? I mean, people always joke about the things school children get up to behind closed dorm room doors or in the locker rooms, but I never thought they were true! Imagine how put out I was when I learned, what with all those fantasies I’d had about getting it off with you in the showers after a Quidditch match. If only I knew then that that was something people actually did! I bet Oliver Wood --”

Draco paused quite suddenly, the breakneck pace of his speech stopping so abruptly Harry thought he might have given himself mental whiplash. His lips forming a surprised “o” for a moment before he clamped them together tightly and turned scarlet. 

Harry’s stomach flipped happily and the warm tingle in his toes and fingers spread throughout his limbs. “Go on,” he said, well aware that he was grinning stupidly, “I quite like this line of conversation. Nothing I didn’t already know, of course. You’ve always had an inexplicable attraction to me, even in school.” He couldn’t help but add, “I’d venture to say you feel it still, even now.”

Draco’s bottom lip was between his teeth. “Not always,” he said quietly, after a moment. “I really did hate you for most of our sixth year.” A dour look of abject misery painted his face and he sighed, “But yes, yes, of course I still feel it, even now.” He glared at his glass. “There must be Veritaserum in this,” he said, but he picked it up and took another sip. “I’ll have that witch’s job for this, poisoning innocent patrons.”

Harry rolled his eyes, feeling strangely light-hearted. “There’s not any Veritaserum in here,” he said. “I’m not spilling any hidden truths. You’re just a light-weight.”

“I am not! And you’ve no secrets to spill. You’re a disgustingly honest person, Harry. Always have been.”

Harry snorted and reached for his drink. “Now _that_ is a lie. I misrepresent the truth all of the time, even lie bald-facedly on occasion. I lied to you last time we spoke.”

Draco’s face was open in it’s curiosity. “Really? What about?” he asked.

“When I told you I was fine,” Harry said. He dropped Draco’s gaze when he realized what he had said. Maybe Draco was right and there was some sort of compulsive version of Veritaserum in the drink, because he knew he shouldn’t be saying this, but still couldn’t stop himself from continuing, “When I told you that I didn’t love you anymore.”

Harry looked up quickly, just in time to see Draco’s open expression close. “I think this is a very dangerous conversation we’re about to have,” he said quietly.

Harry nodded in agreement, but continued foolheartedly anyway. “I still love you, you know. I want not to, but I don’t think it’s something I can control. I miss you all of the time.” He slid his hand across the table top, well into Draco’s space. He didn’t expect Draco to take it, but it seemed important that he make the gesture. 

Draco stared at Harry’s outstretched hand, but stayed unnaturally still. “I miss you too,” he said, so quiet that Harry almost didn’t hear it over the din of the pub. “But, you know that I can’t.” 

Harry’s outstretched hand clenched into a little ball. Frustration was warring with his previous feeling of goodwill. He didn’t want to fight with Draco, not now, not again. 

But then Draco had to go and ask, to bring up the one thing that was sure to put Harry over the edge. “Have you given any more thought to what I proposed the last time we spoke?”

Harry snatched his hand away, holding it against his chest as though wounded. “You know that I haven’t,” he hissed. “I don’t care what’s _understood_ or what people will turn a blind-eye to. If you go through with this wedding, it’s the end for us. I won’t be someone’s piece on the side.”

The noise Draco made was almost inhuman, something between a desperate whine and a cry of exasperation. “You wouldn’t be 'a piece on the side,'” he said, his lip curling around the epithet with disdain. “There have always been provisions made between Pureblood spouses when the marriage wasn’t a love-match. We’d have to keep our distance until my first son is born for propriety's sake, but after that, there is no reason why couldn’t still be together. I’m sure Astoria would be amenable, she’s well aware of my condition.”

“Your condition?” Harry asked with a bitter bark of laughter, the cheerful mood he felt after his first drink shattered. “Is this what you think this is? Some sort of disease? An affliction that be cured by having the occasional cock up your arse? Is that you talking, Draco, or is it your father?”

Something murderous flashed in Draco’s eyes. “Don’t bring him into this,” he said, his voice low and warning.

“Why not?” Harry asked, a blithe sort of hysteria overcoming him. “This is all about him, isn’t it? You never use to talk like this, never use to say anything about duty or marriage or heirs. None of this bullshit started until after he died.”

“Stop playing stupid, Harry!” Draco screeched. “You knew I was the last of my family, the potential end of my line. You knew this day would come.”

“I damn well did not!” Harry yelled, slamming his hand on the table. The drinks rattled and Draco jumped. “I knew you were an only child, the last Malfoy or whatever you want to call it, but I never once imagined that that would mean more to you than I did. I must have been a spectacular idiot, but I didn’t once expect that you’d throw me over just so you could uphold some inane Pureblood tradition. I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming though; you were a Death Eater, after all.”

Draco’s breath was coming in short, aggrieved gasps. “ _That_ has nothing to do with this,” he spit. “You know I’m not that person anymore; you helped me to not be that person.”

“I don’t know what kind of person you are,” Harry said harshly. “But you’re not who I thought you were. You’re not the man I fell in love, and maybe you never were.” 

Harry knew then that Draco was wrong, there couldn’t be Veritaserum in their drinks, because he was lying through the skin of his teeth. Harry knew exactly what of person Draco was, and loved him despite it. And yet, Harry felt compelled to say these things, no matter how cruel they may be. They were his darkest thoughts, the ones he thought he could never give voice, the ones that he nursed alone in the dark and felt ashamed of in the light of day, as though just thinking them was a betrayal. 

Draco looked stricken, his face contorted into a pained expression that was equal horror and heartbreak. “Don’t say that, Harry. Please, don’t say that.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t that be easier for you?” Harry pushed on. He wished he could stop saying these terrible things, but he couldn’t. “Does it make it easier if I say that I never really loved you?” Harry could see that Draco’s self-control was slipping, fraying like the ends of an overburdened rope. “Easier for you to go home to your wife, to stick your Pureblood cock in her Pureblood cunt, so that you can make more little Pureblood babies?”

“Shut up!” Draco cried, both fists coming down to slam on the tabletop. “Shut the hell up!” 

The snifter next to him exploded, the remaining drops of green liquor pooling into a puddle that spread around the shattered pieces of glass. Suddenly, the blonde barmaid was at their side once more. With a snap of her fingers, the mess disappeared and she thrust a small glass of clear liquid at Draco. “Drink this,” she said urgently. “Hurry up, you two are making quite a scene.” 

Draco took the glass from her and tossed the entire thing back in one unthinking gulp. 

“What was that?” Harry demanded. “What did you give him?” He felt frantic and did not trust this witch, no matter how kind her face seemed on first glance. He was sure there was something in the drinks she gave them, something that made him say those unforgivable things that he couldn’t possibly mean. 

She stared at him for a moment, then quickly looked away. “It’s just a calming drought,” she said to Harry, though she watched Draco carefully, “shouldn’t last for more than five minutes. Just enough to soothe the nerves.”

Draco slumped into his seat, his head lolling back to rest against the cushion of the high-backed bench. “Harry always makes a scene,” he said, his words slow and slightly slurred. For the first time since they’d entered the pub, he seemed intoxicated. “Damn drama queen, that Potter. I’ve always said so.”

The barmaid turned to Harry. “I think you’d better take him home. He’s in no state to travel alone.”

Harry waved her away. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he grumbled. What a disaster this entire evening had been, and it’d only lasted about twenty minutes. To think, he’d started it with such naive hope in his heart. He slid out of his seat and held his hand out. “Come on, Draco, get up. Let’s get you home.”

Draco took Harry’s outstretched and pulled himself up with visible effort. He stumbled slightly on his feet and leaned against Harry for support. “I knew you’d get me drunk and try to take advantage,” he giggled. 

Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t take the bait. There was no sign of Draco's cloak, so Harry wrapped him in his own and steered Draco towards the door. Before they left, he cast one last look back at the pub, searching for the barmaid, but didn’t see her anywhere. With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the door.

The wind was bitter and cold, but the heat of Draco’s body pressed against him made up for it. “Do you want to go back to the Manor?” Harry asked. “Or are you staying somewhere else?” He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat when he thought that Draco might be living with Astoria until the wedding.

“I have a flat,” Draco said. His voice was still thick, but lucidity was returning to his eyes. “I don’t want to go there though. It’s very lonely.”

Harry didn't ask whose fault that was, though he desperately wanted to. Instead, he asked, “To the Manor then?” 

There was a heartrending plea in Draco’s voice, “Can’t I come back to your place? Our place?” 

Harry took an instinctive step backwards. “I don’t think that would be wise,” he said.

Draco took a step forward, and Harry another one back. Harry felt like stalked, although not unnecessarily unwilling, prey. “Please, Harry?” Draco slurred. “Just one night. I miss you.”

Harry’s back hit the brick wall behind him. He closed his eyes, trying to squeeze the haunted image of Draco’s sad, beautiful face from his mind’s eye. “Oh, God,” he said, his voice barely more than a cracking whisper. 

Even with his eyes closed, he knew Draco was still advancing. He was trapped between the unyielding brick and the firm line of Draco’s body. Draco’s breath was hot where it ghosted over the skin of his neck, and then up to his ear, where he whispered, “Please?”

Harry let out a pitiful whine. Draco was so close and Harry knew that he meant to kiss him. He wanted Draco to kiss him, he wanted it with a burning desire like he’d never known, but he also knew what a monumental mistake it would be to give into that temptation. 

But he was only a man, and the soft press of Draco’s lips against his own was too enticing. Another whine escaped him, but this one was more desperate and needy than mournful, and was immediately swallowed down by the smooth glide of Draco’s lips.

Harry’s mouth opened under Draco’s, an involuntary act of muscle-memory, a thoughtless response to a well-practiced action. Draco’s tongue slid across his, a slow, lazy glide that sent ripples of pleasure coursing through Harry’s body, making the earlier tingling sensation he’d felt from the drink pale in comparison. His hand drifted up to card through Draco’s hair, pulling at him until they were pressed together so tightly that Harry couldn’t tell where he ended and Draco began. He felt drunk, utterly intoxicated, just from the taste of Draco’s tongue in his mouth.

Just one simple kiss, and his mind was shutting down.

Draco began to retreat, his teeth nipping lightly at Harry’s bottom lip, sucking it into his own mouth even as he pulled away. He released Harry’s lip and let his head relax, his forehead resting against Harry’s. Harry’s hands traced the familiar planes of Draco’s body as he brought his hands to Draco’s chest. He could feel Draco’s heartbeat thumping wildly beneath his fingertips.

“Fuck,” Draco said on a shaky exhale.“That was...” trailed off, words seeming to have escaped him. “Fuck,” he said again. He slumped against Harry’s chest, burying his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. “Damn it, I still love you. Why can’t I stop loving you?”

A sharp, stinging sensation was mounting behind Harry’s eyes. He shut them tight to stop the tears from falling. Those were the words he’d wanted so desperately to hear, but they only broke his heart. “I can’t do this,” he said weakly. He struggled to pull air into his aching lungs. “I can’t do this,” he repeated. 

He felt, rather than saw, the muscles of Draco’s face move as his expression shifted. He could imagine what Draco looked like, clear as day behind his shuttered eyelids. Draco’s forehead would be wrinkled where his eyebrows knit together, his nostrils would be flared, and his lips set into a pained pout. “Please, Harry, try to understand --”

“No,” Harry said quickly, pushing against Draco’s chest. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t relieve the past six months all over again. He should never have come here, never have let it go this far. “No, Draco, stop. I understand better than you know. But I just...I _can’t._ ” 

Harry pushed Draco away and struggled out of his grip. He stumbled forward a few paces, needing to put some distance between them before his resolve cracked and he made an even worse decision. He wanted to do it, wanted to say fuck it and throw caution to the wind. A part of him thought that exchanging the remnants of his mangled heart for one more night would be worth it, but Harry fought against that impulse. He forced himself to remember the first few nights in the empty flat, to concentrate on the misery he’d felt after Draco first left him, as opposed to the joy he’d had before it all went to hell.

Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, Harry wrapped his fingers around his wand. “I’m sorry, Draco,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

When he appeared in his living room a moment later, Harry fell to his knees and wept.


	2. Part II

The area around the Leaky Cauldron was more than a little dodgy at night. Draco hardly noticed the unwashed Muggles that shuffled towards the shadows as he passed them. He walked quickly but without purpose. The wind picked up and the bitter cold bit at his skin. He pulled his cloak tight around him and fumbled in the pocket, searching for the soft pack of cigarettes he kept there. When he failed to find them he cursed, and looking closer at the sleeve he realized it wasn’t his cloak at all. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself as his feet kept moving without direction.

He’d always known this time would come, when the burden of bearing the weight of his family’s name would fall to him. He had pretended not to notice when his father invited eligible Pureblood girls to dinner, just as he had ignored his mother’s wistful sighs whenever a wedding invitation or birth announcement was dropped onto her lap by a well-bred owl. 

Their manipulations couldn’t have been more transparent, yet he’d feigned ignorance to their poorly veiled gestures. He’d neglected his duty as man so that he could chase a schoolboy’s dream. He let what should have been nothing but a dalliance blossom into what could only be described as love. 

He’d been too weak to resist the tempting promise of a life with Harry, and once again, his weakness had hurt so many.

He hated seeing Harry like that, hated knowing that he was the cause of the pain and longing in Harry’s eyes. There was almost nothing he wouldn’t do to see that pain erased and to have Harry’s crooked, toothy grin directed at him once more. He knew what he’d have to give up in order for that to happen, but it was the one thing he couldn’t turn his back on. 

Malfoy. 

It was a name that had struck terror and awe in the hearts of witches and wizards for centuries. It could be traced back to the days of the Norman invasion and represented almost a thousand years of history and magic, of brilliant wizards and beautiful witches, of prosperity and achievement. It was a name that had survived the Burning Times and the rise and fall of countless dark wizards. 

And it could all end with him. 

It may have been his name, but it wasn’t his to give.

Draco stopped and looked around, unsure of where his feet had taken him. He recognized the street immediately. If he walked two more blocks and turned right at the corner, he’d be four houses down from the little terrace house he’d once shared with Harry. He could just picture it, their little home with its plain brick exterior and a potted plant outside the front door. The image made his stomach clench.

He wondered if Harry would be in there, if he would have apparated straight home and crawled into the bed they use to share. The desire to turn that corner, to go _home_ , was so strong that it threatened to overwhelm him. He knew what he would do if he saw Harry’s figure silhouetted through the window and that knowledge scared him. 

It took a monumental effort of will for Draco to turn on the spot, concentrating on the only place he knew he’d find someone who could talk him back from the edge.

Draco would have been less surprised to arrive in the sitting room of Pansy’s flat and find her _in flagrante delicto_ with a centaur than in the middle of a scene so domestic it could have been taken from the pages of “Better Homes and Cauldrons.” 

Pansy was lounging across the settee, her head resting against the arm and her legs strewn across the lap of an unfamiliar looking man. The man had his hands wrapped around her bare feet, rubbing them absentmindedly as he watched the telly in the corner and she leafed through a copy of “Witch Weekly.”

The moment their eyes met, Pansy leaped to her feet.

“What the bloody hell is this?” Draco asked, bewildered. 

“Don’t you show up in _my_ flat unannounced and curse at _me_!” Pansy snapped as she tugged the sides of her dressing gown closed and fumbled to tie the sash. “What the hell are you doing here, Draco?”

“Draco?” the man on the couch asked. He stood and offered his hand, which Draco looked at suspiciously. “I’m Nathaniel,” the man said with a wide smile, “Pansy’s fiance. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Draco stared stupidly at the outstretched hand, all thoughts of his disastrous meeting with Harry pushed from his mind as he struggled to find meaning in this man’s strange words. He turned and mouthed, “Fiance?” to Pansy, who gave a smile that was half grimace and dropped his gaze.

Nathaniel didn’t notice the awkward exchange, or if he did it didn’t seem to bother him. He waited until Draco took his hand in a weak shake before he spoke again. “I take it Pansy hasn’t told you about me yet?” he asked with good humor in his voice. When Draco gave a feeble shake of his head, Nathaniel dropped his hand and turned to Pansy, “We agreed it was about time, Pans.”

Pansy sighed and flung herself back onto the settee, looking thoroughly put out. “I haven’t found the right moment yet,” she said glumly.

“Now looks like a fine time,” Nathaniel said as he sat down and threw an arm around her shoulders. Pansy tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he pulled her closer. They exchanged a look that Draco couldn’t read. Pansy rolled her eyes, but stopped squirming.

“I'm sorry, but I don't understand,” said Draco, interrupting their silent conversation. He felt confused and left out. “Are you really engaged? Why have you been keeping this a secret? It’s wonderful news. Pansy, your parents will be thrilled!”

“Not likely,” Pansy snorted. She crossed her arms and inclined her head to her fiance. “Nathaniel, tell Draco a bit about yourself.”

Nathaniel looked confused for a moment, but seemed to cotton on quickly. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I'm an Operational Risk Analyst with Barclays. I read Economics at Oxford, and before that I was at Harrow. My father was a MP during Maggie's reign and my mother was a –” Pansy raised her hand, a signal for him to stop. Nathaniel obeyed.

“So you see why I haven't told anyone,” she said dryly, addressing Draco.

Draco looked between them again, feeling more perplexed than ever. “I don't know what any of that meant,” he said.

“Neither did I, when we first met,” replied Pansy. “Just like he wouldn’t have had any clue what it meant had I told him that I was a Pureblood, the daughter of a Death Eater, or a Slytherin.”

Realization hit Draco like a powerful jinx and he took a step back instinctively. “You're a Muggle!” he gasped. He winced when he heard his words aloud; he hadn't intended for it to sound like an accusation.

Pansy's nostrils flared and she drew herself up in her seat. “So what if he is?” she demanded.

Draco's mouth opened and closed as his overtired brain searched for the right thing to say. He didn't want to cause offense, but he could barely believe that he was in Pansy's sitting room, less than three feet away from a Muggle man to whom Pansy was apparently engaged. It wasn't like he'd never seen a Muggle before. He was twenty-five years old, for Merlin's sake. But giving your order to a Muggle waitress or bumping into one on a crowded street was hardly the same thing as standing across from one who knew enough about magic to not blink an eye when someone apparated directly in front of them.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, once he had regained himself. “I just...I was a bit surprised. How did you even meet?”

Pansy gave a sheepish grin, an expression Draco hadn’t seen on her face since school. “At Daphne's hen party, believe it or not,” she answered. “We went to a Muggle club so that we wouldn't be recognized, and Nathaniel here started chatting me up. I'd had a couple drinks at that point and thought 'why the hell not?' I'd never been with a Muggle before and you hear these rumors...” she trailed off and into a blush.

“But Daphne's been married for over a year now,” Draco said.

“One year and three months, actually,” Pansy corrected.

Draco stumbled his way to an empty armchair. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he said. He could see Pansy shifting in her seat from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He was still reeling from the shock of it all, but now hurt and offense were beginning to edge their way into his emotions. She had had a boyfriend for over a year, and she hadn’t told him? 

“I wanted to,” she said in a smaller voice than he was use to hearing her use. “It was hard, keeping it a secret. I wanted to tell everyone, to shout it from the steps of Gringott’s, but I was scared. Scared of what people would think, what they would say. I thought I could bear it all if I could have you on my side.” 

She paused and bit her lip. She looked to Nathaniel, who squeezed her knee and nodded, encouraging her to continue. She did, her voice still small and her eyes averted, “But then your father died, and you were suddenly obsessed with bloodlines and legacy and family duty, all of that old rubbish.” Draco heard her sniffle. He no longer felt offense to being left out of this part of her life, but ashamed that he had given her cause to keep him from it. 

“I wanted to,” she continued, her voice slightly stronger, “but I was scared of what you’d think of me too.”

No one spoke. Draco leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. The only sound was an upbeat jingle coming from a commercial on the telly, obnoxiously cheerful in quiet melancholy of the room.

“Tell him everything,” he heard Nathaniel say quietly. Draco raised his head from his hands to stare at them, unsure if he could handle any more surprises.

Pansy untucked her feet and stood, crossing the small sitting room in three short strides. Without speaking, she untied the sash of her dressing gown and let the fabric part. It wasn’t until she had lifted the hem of her sleep shirt that Draco noticed it, a roundness to her belly that she didn’t use to have, a bump still so slight he wouldn’t have noticed it underneath the forgiving layers of robes. 

Without thinking, he reached out, laying his hand across her stomach. He looked up at her.

Pansy was staring down at him, watching close for his reaction. He ventured a hesitant smile. He wanted to speak, but his throat was closing, and everything he could think to say sounded too insignificant and stupid for such an enormous occasion. 

How could he congratulate her on a pregnancy she thought she had to keep from him? How could he apologize for making her feel that she had to do that in the first place? She was one of the few people who had stood by his side through the war and into the uncertain world afterwards. He’d always leaned on her when he needed strength, but at the time when she needed him most, he hadn’t been there.

“Are you cross?” she asked. 

If it weren’t for the crushing guilt that was holding him down, he’d have bounded to his feet and swept her across the room in a mad dance of celebration. She was having _a baby_ and that was wonderful news. “How could you -- ” he stuttered. “Why would even think that?”

Pansy’s smile was rueful. “Because I'm the last daughter of an ancient family, already extinct in the male line, and I’m going give birth to a half-blood bastard? My parents will disown me when they find out. Will I lose you too?” she asked, hiding the tremor in her voice behind a fierce glare.

Draco's eyes slid to Nathaniel, who was still on the settee, quietly watching the scene unfold. Nathaniel didn't move, didn't speak, just sat ready to pounce in case Pansy needed his aid, but willing to let her handle her business until that time came. He looked back at Pansy, who had her chin tilted up in childlike defiance, as if daring him to abandon her. 

She was standing so close to him that when Draco stood, there was almost no space between them. The small curve of her belly stuck out between them, and Draco couldn't help but laugh at the impossible sight. He pulled her into a hug and felt Pansy relax in his arms, burying her head in his shoulders. “Of course you won't,” he whispered into her hair. “You'll have to do something far worse than fall in love with a Muggle to get rid of me.”

Pansy pulled away slightly, but didn't disentangle herself from his grip. “That's the thing,” she said quietly. “To say I could do worse is to say that I've done something wrong, and I don't think that I have. I'm happy with Nathaniel; I love him. How could that be wrong?”

There was a pleading in her eyes, but Draco couldn't tell if it was simply for his blessing or for something more. His question was answered when she leaned close and whispered, so quiet that only they could hear, “You deserve to be happy too, Draco. You should be with someone you love.”

Draco had to close his eyes and concentrate on his breathing in order to prevent his mind from wandering the path Pansy had no doubt intended to send it on. The words didn't need to be said. The parallel between their situations was obvious, as was the place where their their journeys parted. 

Draco had already chosen his road; he'd chosen his family and his duty and Astoria. It was too late now, no matter how desperately he ached to double back and follow Pansy down the unknown road. As if reading his mind, Pansy leaned in and whispered into his ear, “It's not too late, you know.” She kissed him on the cheek and withdrew, shuffling back to Nathaniel, who stood and wrapped her in his arms.

He watched them for a moment, huddled together in an embrace that gave both comfort and support, and knew that Pansy had chosen right. “I have to go,” he said, though his voice cracked and his throat felt dry. “I've got to think about some things.”

If either of them responded or wished him good night, Draco didn't hear. Whatever their response may have been was swallowed by the deafening clap of his disapparation.

**

“Harry?”

Harry cracked open one eye. Through his eyelashes he could Ron's concerned looking face staring down at him. “Get out of my bedroom, you perv,” he grunted. 

It felt as though his brain had come loose and was pounding against the walls of his skull. He tried to roll over, wanting to bury his face in the soft comfort of his mattress and slip back into unconsciousness. Instead, the world bottomed out below him and he hit the ground with a unceremonious thunk.

“We're not in your bedroom, mate,” Ron said as he helped Harry sit up. “We're in the sitting room.”

Harry looked around as the world righted itself. There was something hard and cold under his bum. He pulled it from beneath him and gave a bitter laugh when he saw what it was. Memories of the night before came rushing back: Draco, the pub, the kiss, the panicked disapparition, the half bottle of firewhiskey. He let the bottle drop from his hands and winced as the sound of the glass rolling across the hardwood pierced his brain.

Ron reached out and said, “Accio Hangover Potion.” A few seconds passed, and then a small purple bottle flew into his hands, presumably from the bathroom upstairs. “Had a party last night and didn't invite me?” he asked as he uncorked the bottle and handed it to Harry. “I'm offended.”

Harry drank the potion greedily. The pounding in his head ceased and he was able to open his eyes completely, no longer blinded by the light pouring in through the windows. The knot of dread and loss still sat heavy in his stomach, but he knew there was no potion for that.

“Not a party,” Harry rasped as he climbed to his feet. His throat was raw and his mouth tasted like arse. “Just me and old Ogden.”

Ron sat on the settee that Harry had just rolled off, looking even more concerned. He motioned for Harry to join him, and considering how unsteady he still felt, Harry obliged.

“Hermione sent me round to check on you when you didn't show up for lunch,” Ron said. “It's not like you to skip out on us like that. Did something happen?”

Harry groaned and relaxed against the back of the settee, covering his face with his hands. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he couldn’t lie to Ron. “I saw Draco last night,” he said. He peeked out through a crack in his fingers just in time to see Ron's posture straighten. 

“Do you want me to go and fetch Hermione?” Ron asked.

Harry dropped his hands and shook his head, “Nah, it's alright,” he said with a small laugh. “I’m fine. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't kissed me.”

Ron made a distressed, squeaking sound. “Are you _sure_ you don't want me to go get Hermione?”

Harry shook his head again, although his heart felt lighter. There was something distinctly enjoyable about making Ron uncomfortable.

“Well then,” Ron said, drawing himself up, “do you want to talk to me about it?”

Harry looked at him, slightly amazed. Ron had never been good talking about these sorts of things, and the very fact that he was volunteering made Harry feel better. He may have lost Draco, but he was still blessed with amazing friends. Still, the gesture was enough. He didn't actually need to burden Ron with this. He opened his mouth to decline, but Ron was looking at him with determination and expectation. 

“Are you sure you want to talk about this with me?” Harry asked with a sigh.

“You've got to talk to someone,” Ron said, “and if not Hermione, why not me? Come on, mate, you know I'd never judge or hold anything against you. It's been a rough few months for you, but you've kept it all to yourself. You still love the prat, even I can see that, and it won’t get any better if you bottle it up. So just shut the hell up and tell me about it.”

Harry capitulated. He recounted what had happened the previous evening, from the strange barmaid and her stranger drinks, to Draco's indecent proposal and reluctant admission of love, to the kiss and the fear that he was back at square one in regards to getting over Draco. Ron was a surprisingly good listener, nodding to show he was following, but never interrupting or arguing against something Harry had said. 

“I wish I'd never gone,” Harry said when he'd finished. “The fact that Draco still loves me is the hardest part. If I thought he was over us, I might be able to accept it. But if he's not, and I'm not, well, then we're both just fucked, aren’t we?”

Ron let out a low whistle of breath, “Damn, Harry. That's rough. I can't help but feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

That certainly wasn't the response Harry had expected. “You feel sorry for _Draco_? Not for me, but for Draco?”

“I feel sorry for you too!” Ron blustered. “I mean, it's a rotten situation all around. But think about it, if he knows he still loves you, but feels obligated to marry this Astoria bird instead, he must be miserable. He knows he's never going to be happy with her, but he's doing it anyway. His parents have really done a number on his head, haven't they?”

“Yeah, well, we already knew that,” Harry said grimly. He sighed and flopped back against the cushions once more, “If I had to fall in love with a Pureblood, why couldn't it have been a nice, normal one, like you?”

“Like me?” Ron asked with a laugh. “Hate to break it to you mate, but I'm about the most abnormal Pureblood you can find. Come from the biggest blood-traitor family in all of Britain, don't I? Your problem is that you fell in love with a _normal_ Pureblood. Although, I won't go so far as to say nice.”

Harry smiled despite himself. “Don't be mean, Ron. You like Draco, you two were friends. Er, are friends, maybe.”

“Not being mean,” Ron said as he clapped Harry on the shoulder, the force of his friendly gesture making Harry's queasy stomach roll a little, “just supportive. All I'm saying is that I can see why Draco feels obligated. My family's different, sure, but we haven't always been.”

Harry frowned, unsure of what Ron meant by that. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, The Weasleys have been around for centuries,” Ron explained, and Harry noticed his chest puff with a little bit of pride, “but it can’t be an accident that little Rosie is the only non-Pureblood to be born into the family in all this time.”

Harry stared at him, not sure if he could believe what he was hearing. “Is she really the first? Are you saying that _the Weasleys_ use to be blood supremacists?”

“Nah,” Ron said, “I wouldn't go that far. Some families have always been more vocal about that sort of thing, but you've got to admit there must have been some sort of strong preference, you know? My parents are progressive thinkers, for the most part, but even they are stuck in a few of the old ways. Why do you think there are so many of us? You think my parents have never heard of a contraception charm?” He blushed a little, as he did every time he was forced to acknowledged the sexual life of his parents. Which, considering how many children they had, was obviously quite active. “Even though they're not about blood purity, they're still very much into family legacy and all that rot. You remember how mum used to go on and on about Percy and Bill being head boys.” 

Harry was silent as he considered this. He still wasn’t sure it was a very good excuse for what Draco had done to him.

“All I'm saying,” Ron continued, “is that I don't think Draco would be doing this if he thought he had a choice. He is the last one, after all. Not only would the bloodline die with him, but so would the name. That’s got to be a lot of pressure.”

“But that's so stupid,” Harry said, a little harsher than he'd intended. “I'm the last Potter, aren't I? And yet you don't see me jumping into some loveless marriage just so there can be more Potters after me, do you?”

Ron frowned and looked as though he didn't want to say what he about to say, “Yeah, but Harry, you were raised by Muggles. You didn't grow up knowing what it meant to be a Potter, did you? You haven't had it impressed upon you since birth, how important it really is.”

Harry scowled and turned away, worried he might let his anger get the best of him if he looked at Ron. “So that's what you think, too? You think that I should just marry some girl and have babies, because the name I carry is more important than whether or not I’m happy?”

“No!” Ron cried. Harry could see him moving, trying to get his attention, but Harry refused to turn back to him. “I'm not saying that,” Ron said, “I'd never say that. All I'm saying is that Draco's got to be under a lot of pressure, you see? Not just from his parents, but from this collective history. It goes deep, that's all I'm trying to say, mate.” He sat back with a resigned groan, “I should have gone and got Hermione.”

Harry sighed. It wasn’t fair for him to take his temper out on Ron, when the person he really wanted to be angry with was Draco. He thought it would help, that being angry and hurt -- instead of just hurt -- would make it all easier to bare. But when Ron spelled it out for him like that, he found he couldn't maintain his anger with Draco either. It wasn’t as though Draco had been unfaithful or was flaunting his new life in Harry’s face. If anything, he seemed just as, if not more, miserable as Harry.

He gave Ron a friendly punch on the arm. “I'm glad you didn't. Thanks, Ron. I thought I understood, but maybe I don't. Maybe you're right and I can't ever understand. I just -- it feels so hopeless, you know?”

“Well that's the thing about hope, isn't it?” Ron asked. “You feel it even when you think you've got no reason to. And it sucks, but you hold on to it, because what else can you do?”

Harry smiled; that was downright philosophical for Ron. “You're a good friend, you know that?”

The tips of Ron's ears turned red. “Yeah, well,” he said, with an embarrassed smile, “you should get up and have a shower though, because Merlin, Harry, you stink. And I expect Hermione will be wanting you over at our place for dinner, just to make sure you're still alive. All right?”

Harry agreed and they said their goodbyes. He gave a little wave as Ron disappeared back into the flames.

His muscles ached as he climbed the stairs. When he entered his bedroom, there was a box sitting on the top of his bed that hadn't been there the night before. He poked it with the tip of his wand. Nothing happened. He cast a few spells to see if it was cursed, but the box appeared to be harmless. Carefully, he opened the top. There was a note lying on top of a neatly folded piece of black fabric.

_You left this at the Leaky Cauldron last night. I wanted to make sure it got back to it's proper owner safely._

Harry pulled the fabric from the box and realized, with a groan, that it was a cloak. Not his cloak, of course, because he had given that to Draco. He fought back the urge to lift the fine wool to his face and see if he could smell Draco on it; that would have been too pathetic, even for him. 

He tossed the cloak back onto the bed and went into the bathroom, feeling just as confused and hopeless as he had the night before.

**

Teddy was sitting in the parlor, watching as the toy dragons his Gran had charmed to fly and breathe tiny bursts of heatless fire circled around his head. He reached out to grab one, but the dragon gave a quiet roar and darted from his grip.

There was a loud crack and then a tiny elf with grey skin, wide eyes, and an outfit made of green velvet appeared in the middle of the room. The elf bowed low and Teddy stared at him. “You're not our house-elf,” he said, incredulous.

“No, Dizzy is not,” said the elf as he straightened his back. “Dizzy is not a house-elf at all, although house-elves are kin to him.”

“All right,” Teddy said hesitantly, still unsure of what he should do. Should he go get Gran? Were elves supposed to be popping in without being summoned? “What do you want?”

“Dizzy has been given a task,” the elf explained. “But it is most difficult and Dizzy is worried he will fail if he does not seek assistance. Will Master Teddy be willing to help Dizzy in this?”

“How do you know my name?” Teddy asked. “Whose elf are you?”

The elf straightened. “Dizzy is no one's elf, although he willingly serve a most generous Master. Dizzy knows your name because his Master knows it, as his Master knows the names of every boy and girl. Will Master Teddy be willing to help Dizzy?”

Teddy frowned. He wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, but he was pretty sure that when adults said this, they meant other witches and wizards. Was it wrong to talk with an elf he didn't know, even if that elf seemed to know him? “What are you trying to do?” he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. Gran didn’t have to know about this, did she?

The elf smiled, bearing a row of crooked teeth. He stepped forward, pulling a small box from his pocket, and whispered in Teddy’s ear.

**

Draco was lying on his back, staring up at the sitting room ceiling when his mother’s face appeared in his Floo. He didn’t notice her at first, lost in his thoughts as he was. If it had been Harry lying there, Draco would have accused him of “brooding,” but since it was himself, he was merely “thinking.” 

“Draco!” his mother shouted. Draco was startled out of his non-brooding thoughts so abruptly that he jumped and nearly landed on the floor. “Darling, come quick! Andromeda has just sent a patronus! Teddy is in hospital!”

Her face disappeared from the fire and Draco scrambled to his feet. He barely remembered to grab a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle before he called out, “St Mungo’s!” and dived into the flames.

**

Harry was pacing back and forth in the cramped waiting room, his agitation growing with each passing second. He could barely make it three paces before being forced to turn around and stalk in the opposite direction. “What’s taking so long?” he asked. “Why won’t they tell us anything?”

Andromeda blew her nose into her handkerchief. Her face was red and raw from crying, and Harry was struck with disbelief that he had ever thought she looked like her sister Bellatrix. There was too much worry, too much love, in her features to ever look like that cruel madwoman. 

The door to the waiting room opened and Harry turned, hoping that a Healer had finally come to tell them what was going on. Instead of a healer, a frantic looking Narcissa Malfoy was bracketed in the doorframe, her son’s worried and pinched looking face just over her shoulder.

Narcissa flew into the room and flung herself at her sister, who had resumed crying the moment she’d seen her family in the door. Draco entered with less haste, his steps measured and hesitant. He cast a pained look at his mother and her sister before forcing himself to look at Harry. “How is he?” he asked, his voice lowered to barely more than a whisper. “What happened?”

It was difficult for Harry to look at him, even with Draco’s eyes lowered. He forced himself not to think about how badly he wanted to reach out and lift Draco’s face, to make his eyes meet his own. Instead, he focused on breathing and answering the questions that were important at the moment. “We don’t know,” he said, his voice shaking, “Andromeda found him in the parlor, vomiting buckets. She asked he had eaten anything he wasn’t supposed to, but he wouldn’t respond. He just groaned and was sick again. He had a fever, and his nose was bleeding. She brought him here, then sent her patronus to me.” He looked over his shoulder at the two witches, who were huddled close together and having a private conversation of their own. “And to your mum, apparently.”

Draco sat in an empty chair, which squeaked under his weight. “Fuck,” he said on an exhale, “Did he have anything on his skin? Spattergroit begins with vomiting. Merlin, I hope it’s not Spattergroit.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Harry said as he lowered himself into in the seat next to Draco. “Andromeda didn’t mention it, but it’s probably best not to ask her right now. Wouldn’t want to upset her more.”

Draco looked to the corner where his mother and her sister were sat together and nodded. He turned his attention to the hands in his lap and said no more. His presence had a quieting effect on Harry, who no longer felt the need to pace through the room and rip his hair out by the roots. They sat in a heavy silence as the clock in the corner continued to tick. Harry wanted to reach out and take Draco's hand in his, to give it a reassuring squeeze and tell him everything would be alright. 

After what felt like an eternity, the door to the waiting room opened again and a Healer in lime green robes entered. Andromeda and Harry both leaped to their feet. Narcissa stood a moment later, but Draco remained seated. One of his hands clutched the arm of the cheap waiting room chair in a death grip while the other shot out to grab Harry by the wrist. 

Harry stopped, his attention torn between the Healer at the door and Draco's touch.

“I am looking for Andromeda Tonks,” the healer announced, her face buried in the bright purple folder she was carrying, “grandmother to Theodore Lupin.”

“That's me!” Andromeda shouted, rushing forward. “Please, tell me what's happened, is Teddy alright?”

The healer looked up from her folder and smiled. “Yes, ma'am, I assure you that young – Teddy did you call him? – is perfectly well. It appears he got himself into a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Skiving Snackbox,” she explained with a little laugh. “The effects aren't usually so pronounced, but Teddy is younger than the recommended age for usage and appears to have taken the entire contents of the snackbox at once. He's very dehydrated and will need to be kept overnight to monitor his fluid intake, but rest assured, there will be no long term damage.”

Andromeda collapsed into Narcissa’s arms. Draco released his grip on Harry's wrist and let his head fall against the back of the chair with a heavy sigh. Harry sank back into his seat as relief crashed over him.

But just as quickly as peace had overcome their motley crew, Andromeda was towering over Harry, her face screwed up with fierce anger. Harry thought that maybe she could look like Bellatrix, when she wanted.

“And just where did Teddy get a skiving snackbox?” she demanded. “Did you give it to him, Harry?”

Harry felt like a child back at Hogwarts, crumpling under the weight of Professor McGonagall's disapproving glare. Except for once, he actually was innocent of what he'd been accused. “Of course not,” he said. “I'd never give him anything like that!”

Andromeda's eyes narrowed, as if she were going to believe him despite serious misgivings. She turned to Draco, “And you? Did you give it to Teddy?”

Draco looked frightened. “No,” he said meekly, shaking his head. “No, I'd never.”

Andromeda continued to look unconvinced, but Narcissa put an arm around her shoulders and steered her away from Harry and Draco. “We can ask Teddy when he's feeling better, don't worry about that now.” She turned and addressed the Healer, “May we see him?”

The Healer looked unsure for a moment, but then nodded and said, “Yes, but he's still feeling quite poorly. No more than two at a time and for no longer than fifteen minutes. The boy needs rest, we mustn't overwhelm him.”

The sisters followed the Healer from the room, leaving Harry alone in the small room with Draco, who appeared quite pale despite Teddy’s positive prognosis.

“Draco?” Harry asked, wondering if he should perhaps go and find a Healer. “Are you alright?”

“He stole them from me,” Draco said, quite suddenly and with no small amount of anguish. “I keep a box in Father's old desk in the library. He must have nicked them when he was at the Manor last week.” He groaned and cradled his head in his hands. “This is all my fault.”

“No, of course it's not,” Harry said. He angled himself towards Draco; their knees bumped together, but neither moved away. He reached out to take Draco's hand, but hesitated for just a moment too long and let his hand settle in his own lap. It was strange that he couldn’t even lay a comforting hand on Draco anymore. “Did Teddy see you put them there?” he asked.

Draco shook his head, still looking miserable.

“How would he have known? He must have gotten them from a kid in his playgroup, maybe someone with an older sibling. Don't blame yourself without knowing for sure.”

Draco looked unconvinced, but smiled slightly. He said nothing.

“The real question,” Harry said lightly, hoping to change the subject, “is why you own a Skiving Snackbox in the first place. You're not in school anymore, you know.”

Harry saw Draco's face turn the slightest shade of pink. “I keep a box on hand,” Draco said, “in case Astoria tries to overstay her visits at the Manor.” His face twisted in a wry, self-deprecating smile. “I've only had to use the Noseblood Nougat so far, but it was rather effective, if I do say so myself.”

Harry knew he was expected to laugh, but he couldn't find much humor in the situation. If anything, it made him inexpressibly sad. “Draco, you shouldn't have to – ”

Draco held up his hand to cut him off. “Shouldn't have to fake illness to get out of spending time with my fiancee? Yes, I know. I don't need a lecture about it, Harry. I'm well aware.”

Silence settled over them again and suddenly the small waiting room felt claustrophobic. Harry needed to say something, anything, to break the tense quiet. “She just left then, when you got a nosebleed?”

“Well, it was rather disgusting,” said Draco. “You can't blame her for being a bit squeamish.”

Harry bit his lip, trying to decide if he should say what he was thinking. It wouldn't do any good, but at this point, there was little he could do to make things worse between them. “I wouldn't have left,” he said softly. “I would have stayed to make sure you were alright.”

Draco's head turned slightly, and Harry could see that Draco was watching him from the corner of his eye. “No, I suppose you wouldn't have. But you're not the sort to run away, are you? You never give up, do you, Harry?”

Harry kept his gaze fixed on his hands, focusing on his dirty nails and torn cuticles. “I don’t give up easy, that’s true,” he said, “not as long as I think there's still a chance. Maybe sometimes even when I know there's not,” he added with a wry smile. “But even I’ve got to admit defeat sometimes. I can’t keep chasing an impossible dreams forever, can I?”

Draco was no longer looking at him, but staring at his own hands, clean and slender by comparison. 

It took a great deal of courage, but there was a question Harry just had to ask, an answer he needed to know. In a voice barely more than a whisper, he asked, “Should I keep fighting, Draco?”

He held his breath and waited.

Draco didn't respond. He shook his head, tossing his overlong fringe back from his forehead and stood. “I need to go,” he said woodenly, “There's something I need to attend to. Apologize to Andromeda for me, if you would. Tell her I'll come and visit Teddy when he's back at home.” He moved swiftly towards the door, his face set in grim determination.

Harry jumped to his feet, spurred on by a fresh sting of rejection. “Running away again?” he called out.

Draco paused, his hand on the doorknob. He turned back, his expression unreadable. “No,” he said, “this time, I'm running towards something. But I have to do something first, Harry. I have things I _need_ to attend to,” he repeated. “But please, don't stop fighting.”

Before Harry could make any sense of Draco's cryptic words, the door had opened and closed. 

He was alone, once again.

**

Night was just beginning to fall when Draco arrived in Wiltshire. He used the light of the setting sun to find his way through the ancient graveyard. He knew where he was going though; his feet had carried him to the spot so many times over the past six months, they could have made the journey in the pitch black of midnight.

He walked to the back of the graveyard, stepping around the weather-worn tombstones of so many Malfoys who had lived, died, and been laid to rest in this humble cemetery; great thinkers, artists, and politicians, their bodies decaying under his feet, their lives reduced to blurbs in the family history books.

He sank to his knees in front of the newest tombstone, the white marble still shining bright, not yet touched by weather or age. His fingers traced the engraving. How wondrous, he thought, that everything his Father had been could be reduced to a name, a set of dates, and the generic epitaph of “Dutiful Son, Adoring Husband, Loving Father.”

The silver of his signet ring was cool as Draco slipped it from his finger. He studied it for a moment, running the tip of his finger over the engraved family crest. It was too small to read, but he knew what it would say if it were legible. _Sanctimonia Vincent Semper_.

The ground beneath his fingers was soft; there hadn't been enough time for grass to reclaim the disturbed earth. He dug, not caring for once if dirt got under his fingernails. In the center of the small hole he’d made, he dropped the ring.

“I'm sorry, Father,” he whispered as he pushed the damp earth back into the hole.

Draco stood and walked to the edge of the graveyard, never once looking back.

**

Harry had always been a light sleeper. Spending the majority of your adolescence in mortal danger tended to do that. He was awake and halfway down the stairs before the second round of frantic knocking began. With one hand gripped firmly around his wand and the other struggling to push his glasses onto his nose, he called out, “Who's there?”

“It's me,” came Draco's urgent voice from the other side of the door. “It's me, Harry. Let me in.”

Harry hurried the rest of the way to the door and threw it open. Draco was standing on the step, the light from the street lamps outside illuminating his pale blond hair in a golden halo. His eyes were alive, full of more excitement and vigor than Harry had seen in them in a very long time. His whole body seemed to be vibrating with nervous energy. In his long-fingered hands he held a heavy looking piece of black fabric. 

Startled as he was by Draco's sudden appearance on his doorstep, Harry could do nothing but stand and stare.

“Aren't you going to invite me in?” Draco asked.

“Oh, right,” Harry said, still confused. He stepped aside so Draco could enter. “What are you doing here?” he asked as he closed and relocked the door. “It's got to be well past midnight.”

“I've got your cloak,” Draco said, turning to Harry and holding up the black garment in his hands as evidence. “I wanted to return it to you, and to thank you for letting me borrow it.”

If Harry ever needed any evidence that Draco was mad, showing up in the middle of the night to return a cloak was it. “Uh, thank you Draco,” he said as he took the cloak from Draco. He didn't know what to do with it, so he tossed it over the back of the settee. “But it couldn't have waited? I was sleeping.”

“No,” Draco said, shaking his head, “it couldn't have. Because, I had your cloak, and I needed to give it back to you. And I needed to tell you...” he faltered. He took a deep breath and threw his shoulders back. “I had to tell you that I've ended it. My engagement, that is. I've ended it with Astoria.”

Harry blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly or if this entire scene was some sort of fever dream. Was Draco really in his – in _their_ sitting room – saying the words Harry hadn't hoped to dream he'd ever hear. “You've ended it with Astoria,” he repeatedly dumbly. “When?”

Draco nodded. “About two hours ago. I had to go and talk to Mother, directly after. I couldn't risk her hearing it from Mrs Greengrass, you see.” Draco was practically bouncing on his heels, all nervous, manic energy. “She says hello, by the way. My mother, not Mrs Greengrass. She also wants you to know that you're invited round on Christmas, if you'd like. It won’t be much, just me and Mother, but if you'd like to pop in that'd be alright.”

“Draco, slow down,” Harry pleaded. “All of this just happened? As in, since I saw you at the hospital four hours ago?”

Draco nodded. “Yes, you see, after I left the hospital I had to go and talk to my father. And then I had to go and talk to Astoria. She threw quite a fit, unsurprisingly, but thankfully her father wasn’t home, or else I might not have walked out of there alive. And then I had to go and talk to my mother, to explain things. She’s still with Aunt Andromeda at the hospital, but Teddy is fine. And then I had to come and talk to you. To tell you that I'm sorry, that I was stupid, and that I want – ”

Whatever Draco wanted, Harry didn't hear, because Draco's rambling train of thought was abruptly cut off by Harry, who had lunged at Draco, shoving him against the door behind him and snogging him full on the mouth.

“You stupid, sodding prat,” Harry panted as he forced himself upon Draco, their teeth clanging in a crude approximation of a kiss, “You selfish, slimy little prick.”

Draco whimpered. His hands came up to grip at Harry's shoulders, but he didn't push Harry away, just dug his fingers into Harry's muscles and held on. “I know,” he said, once Harry had relinquished his mouth and moved on to assault the curve of Draco's jaw. “I know, I'm the worst. I'm sorry, Harry, for what it's worth, I'm so sorry.”

“Sorry's not going to cut it,” Harry growled against Draco's throat. He braced his fists against the door behind them. “You can't just swan off and get engaged, leaving me shattered for _six fucking months_ , and then just show up one night and say it was all a joke.” He punched the door behind Draco’s head, his frustration and hurt too much to verbalize. 

Draco jumped, but didn't try to move away.

“It wasn't a joke,” Draco said softly. He craned his neck, trying to catch Harry's lips in another kiss, but Harry turned his head away. Draco sighed and pressed a soft kiss to the side of Harry's face anyway. “It was never a joke, Harry. I did it because – because I thought I had to. I didn't think I had a choice.”

Harry closed his eyes tight, determined not to let any of the tears he could feel building fall. “You always have a choice,” he said gruffly. “Everyone always has a choice.”

The hands gripping his shoulders fell to his chest and pushed, _hard_. Harry stumbled back a few paces, not expecting Draco's shove.

“I know that,” Draco hissed. The manic energy was back in his eyes and his pale face was turning red. “What do you think I'm doing, Harry? I'm making my choice! Astoria wasn't a choice, she was an obligation. You, _you_ are a choice, and goddammit, I'm choosing you!”

They stared at each other across the few short space between them, and for a wild moment, Harry half expected them to start circling each other, as if they were about to spar. He was confused and he was angry, so he said the first things that popped into his mind. “And what if that choice is no longer available?” he asked, even though he knew it wasn’t true. He wanted Draco back so desperately that it hurt, but he couldn’t let Draco think it was that easy. “What if I don't want to be chosen?”

Draco's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Giving up the fight already, Potter? I never knew you were such a coward.”

“If anyone's a coward here, Malfoy, it's you. But don't worry,” Harry said, squaring his own shoulders, “I'm always willing to fight with you.”

Draco launched himself at Harry, but in the moment before their bodies collided and the force sent them sailing over the back of the settee, Harry saw the wild jubilation in his Draco’s eyes.

They landed on the cushions, with Draco on top of Harry. With an enormous heave, Harry pushed up and over, rolling them both off of the settee and onto the floor. He pinned Draco to the ground below him and began his assault, not with his fists, but his lips. They became tangled in the excess yards of Harry's discarded cloak as Draco tried to extricate himself from Harry's grip, but Harry was just that much stronger, and eventually Draco stopped struggling.

There was no care or grace in the way they undressed each other. Shirts were left half on, buttons popped, fabric tore. Harry banged his head against the coffee table and Draco's leg got caught under the settee. But the pain only served as a reminder that this was real, that this was happening, that they were together and doing what they've always done best.

Draco let out a harsh cry, which melted into an aggrieved moan, when Harry bit his hip. Draco's trousers got caught on his boots, and Harry fumbled blindly to wrench them off and toss them across the room. The front of Draco's pants were tented. Harry ran his hand up the length of Draco's cock underneath the fabric, marveling at the familiar feel of it under the palm of his hand. He had thought he'd never get to taste or feel it pressed against him again, but there it was, hard and pulsing underneath his hand, a damp spot staining the pale blue of Draco's cotton pants.

Draco was shaking, straining with obvious effort to hold himself back. “Just do it,” he hissed. He lifted his head so he could look down the line of his body, to see where Harry was straddling his legs. “Please,” he whined, “just fucking do it.”

“Don't tell me what to do,” Harry said, but even as he said it, he closed his grip around the cock beneath his palm and began to move, wanking Draco through his pants, rubbing the thin fabric up and down the firm column of flesh in his hand. Draco's head fell back to the floor and he let out a piteous moan. He tried to pump his hips, but Harry was holding his hips down, forcing him into stillness.

“Did you fuck her?” Harry asked as his hand kept moving. “While we were apart, did you fuck Astoria?”

“What?” Draco asked, and he tried to push into Harry's hand again. “Did I -- what? No, no of course not.”

Harry peeled back the fabric, exposing Draco's flushed cock to the dim light of the room. Even in the near darkness he could see how red and straining it was, the crown purpling slightly with need. “Good,” Harry said, as he took Draco in hand without the thin cotton barrier between them this time. “Good,” he repeated, “and you're not going to fuck anyone else ever again. You hear me Draco? You're mine now. You’ve made your choice.”

Draco was panting, his thin, flushed chest rising and falling rapidly. “Yes, fine,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “yours, Harry. Whatever you say. Now just fucking _do something_ about it.”

“Oh, I will,” Harry said darkly as he bent down. It was an awkward, terrible angle, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting his mouth on Draco, on sucking him down and reminding him that no one could do this to him but Harry; no one could make Draco feel the way he could.

Draco's cock tasted salty from the precum that had leaked from the slit. It felt heavy and full in his mouth, and Harry loved it. Loved the feel of his lips straining around the sides, the veined underside sliding against his tongue. Draco bucked and the head pushed deeper, brushing against the back of Harry's throat. Harry didn't mind, just relaxed his jaw and took Draco deeper.

He worked the muscles of his throat, swallowing around the intrusion. He knew that Draco loved that sensation; they'd done it so many times in the past and it had always driven Draco wild. Harry stole a glance up. Draco's fists were clenched at his sides, his face pinched tight. He was breathing through his nose, his nostrils flared and his chest heaving. It had been six months since they'd last done this last, and he could see that Draco was trying to hold on, to stave back his orgasm and draw this out. 

But Harry wasn't going to let him. He returned his attention to his task and redoubled his efforts, moving up and down Draco's length, pushing down as far as he could on each pass. His saliva was dripping down the sides of Draco's cock, collecting in the coarse patch of light blond hair at the base.

He wrapped one hand around the base of Draco's cock, pulling in time with his smooth glide. The other hand snaked down, the pad of his fingertip trailing over the seam of Draco's sac. From above him he heard Draco give another pleading whine as his legs fell open. 

Harry couldn't help but chuckle victoriously around the cock in his mouth. His finger traced the length of Draco's crack, grazing over the small, furrowed hole that lay hidden between the cheeks. Draco mewled and began to wriggle, chasing Harry's finger, trying to press himself against it, begging without words for Harry's touch.

And God, did Harry want to touch him there. He wanted to spread Draco's legs and ram his fingers inside. He wanted to open Draco up, to feel his tight passage stretch around his fingers, his cock, his entire fucking hand. He wanted to fuck Draco brutality, mercilessly, so that Draco would know with whom he truly belonged. But his wand had been lost in the struggle and the lube was upstairs. There was no way he could tear himself away from Draco's shaking body long enough to find either, and even though he wanted to hurt Draco just a little, he would never consider taking him dry.

Harry contented himself with tracing the outline of Draco's rim, of feeling the way Draco's hole blinked open and close under his touch, desperate and needing to be filled. The tip of his finger pressed inside, not deeply enough to hurt or stretch, just enough to reassure Draco that Harry was there, that he still wanted him. 

Draco arched and writhed, his hips moving, pressing down, trying to push Harry's intruding digit in deeper. He chanted a litany of curses, of moaned pleas. He begged for more, but Harry held fast and did would do nothing more than fuck Draco, slow and shallow, with the tip of that single finger.

“Fuck, Harry. It's been – It's been too long. I can't...”

Harry sealed his lips tight around Draco's cock and _sucked_ , his mouth forming a tight vacuum. His mouth and throat and hands worked in time, each move calculated to wrench Draco's orgasm from him. And then Draco was shaking, every muscle in his body taut. He let out a cry from deep within in his chest and Harry's mouth was filled with the bitter, salty spurts of Draco's release.

Harry sat back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hands. Draco was watching him, his face pink and his grey eyes blazing. Neither spoke as Harry climbed onto the settee, his back sore from the awkward bowed position he had forced himself into so that he could suck Draco. They watched each other in silence as Draco began to move, hauling himself onto his hands and knees so he could crawl across the hard floor.

Draco settled himself between splayed Harry's splayed legs. “I'm sorry,” he whispered as he bent down and pressed a soft kiss against the inside of Harry's thigh. “I'm so sorry, Harry,” he repeated. He kissed Harry gently, his dry lips pressing tenderly against the thin skin of Harry's thigh. His hands hooked around the elastic waistband of Harry's sleep shorts. Harry lifted his hips so Draco could slide them off.

Draco didn't suck him as Harry had done to him; he wasn't trying to hurt or punish. He bathed Harry's cock with his tongue, running the tip of his pink tongue up and down the shaft, around the crown, into the slit. His lips pressed a line of kisses down the vein; he sucked each of Harry's testicles into his mouth in turn, rolling them around on his tongue. He moved slowly back up the length of Harry's cock, giving just as much attention and care to the overheated flesh on his return journey as he had on the way down.

And then he wrapped his lips over his teeth and sank, engulfing Harry in the glorious heat of his soft, wet mouth.

Instinctively, Harry's hands came up to rest on the back of Draco's head. The hair underneath his fingers was fine and downy, soft as silk. He didn't forced Draco's head down further, didn't push his way into the back of Draco's throat; he just sat back and closed his eyes, let himself drown in the familiar feel of Draco's mouth. Draco sucked him lovingly, reverentially. He moaned around the heavy prick in his mouth and sounded utterly content, like there was nowhere else he'd rather be in the world than on his knees between Harry's legs.

“Fuck,” Harry exhaled as he felt his mind begin to spiral. “Missed this so much,” he groaned, “missed you.”

Draco made a noise of agreement as his head continued to bob. One of his hands was digging into the joint of Harry's hip, the other had slipped down between his own legs. He was tugging lightly on his own cock, wanking his spent prick back to semi-hardness.

“Draco, fuck,” Harry gasped. He felt himself melting into bliss. Nothing could compare to the soft, velvet heat of Draco's mouth. His vision began to tunnel and the wet, slurping sounds coming from Draco sounded distant. His other senses were dulling and his only focus was Draco's mouth, Draco's tongue, Draco's lips stretched tight around him.

For a single moment, Harry was convinced he'd lost consciousness. The world around him faded to dark and the only thing he could feel was his orgasm overtaking him, sharp jolts of electric pleasure coursing through his body, out through his cock, and into Draco's willing mouth. The world came back to him with the sound Draco made, a high pitched keening noise in the back of his throat as he continued to suck, drinking down every single drop of Harry's come, until Harry was dry and deflating in his mouth.

Harry relaxed against the back of the settee, his body too tired to hold himself upright any longer. He'd expected Draco to move, to join him on the seat, but Draco remained where he was, kneeling between Harry's splayed legs.

“I'm sorry,” Draco said again.

Harry looked down at him. There was a smear of come on his lips and his eyes were wide and desperate, begging for forgiveness. Harry hated to see him like that and had to look away. He patted the empty spot on next to him. Draco scrambled to his feet and sat himself on the edge, perched precariously as though he were ready to flee again at any moment.

“Relax,” Harry told him as he brought one hand up to rub a comforting circle across Draco's back. Draco did, but only slightly. “We'll...we'll work through this, all right?”

“You mean that?” Draco asked, his voice quiet and uncertain, as though he wanted to believe it, but the price of believing was too high.

“Yeah,” Harry said, knowing it was true, because he wanted it so badly. He’d move mountains to make it true. “It won't be easy, but we'll find a way. You know I still love you, you insufferable prat.”

Draco's body flagged. He closed his eyes and nodded, “I love you too.”

They stayed in the sitting room for the next few hours, talking with a candor they’d never realized they didn't have before. Draco curled himself around Harry as they talked about life and death, about legacies and family, about their futures and their pasts. It wasn’t as though nothing had changed between them, because something had. Neither could deny that. But they could hope that it would only make them stronger, more open and honest with each other. 

It was dawn before they made their way up to the bedroom they'd once shared. They fell, exhausted and tentatively happy, onto the bed and were asleep before their eyes closed.

Neither noticed that the wardrobe door was open, two clean black cloaks hanging inside.

**

_Epilogue:  
Christmas Eve Day, 2007_

Pansy opened one tired eye. “Someone get this mutt away from me,” she called to the crowded room.

“Don't call him that,” Hermione admonished, even as she bustled over to steer Teddy away from her. “Come on, Teddy, leave Auntie Pansy alone. Let her nap until supper.”

Pansy groaned and tried to sit up, a feat made most difficult by her swollen belly. “Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist. He thinks its good fun, don't you, Teddy? Do the trick Aunt Pansy taught you.”

Teddy wrestled out of Hermione's grip and dropped to the floor on his hands and knees. He barked a few times, wiggling his bum, then set back on his heels. He tucked his elbows in tight to his sides and lifted his hands up in a mimed beg. He looked up at the adults around him, a wide grin across his face as he awaited their approval.

From across the room, Draco snickered. Harry elbowed him in the ribs, “Don't encourage her. She's going to give him a complex.”

Draco slid his arm around Harry's waist. He pulled Harry close and brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Sorry,” he whispered, “she brings out the worst in me.” He turned and addressed her, “Stop it now, Pans. The boy is not a dog.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and pushed to her feet with great effort, grumbling underneath her breath about having to use the loo, _again._ Nathaniel, who had been in the corner trying to explain what a fuse box was to Ron, moved to follow, but she waved him off and disappeared down the hall.

Harry cast a Tempus charm and excused himself to go check on the ham. Draco watched Hermione continued to lecture Teddy on not allowing people to tease him, but decided to leave that conversation to her. She had more experience in that department, anyway. 

He strolled to the corner where Rosie and Eugenia, Pansy and Nathaniel's daughter, were settled by the Christmas tree. Dozens of brightly colored packages spilled out from beneath the tree.

Rosie was almost a year older than Eugenia, and trying to help the younger girl build a fort with her new set of brightly colored wooden blocks. The children had all been allowed to open their presents from Harry and Draco that evening, instead of being forced to wait until the next morning. Draco had felt the blocks were too simple a gift for Pansy’s daughter, but Harry had insisted that all Muggle children needed a set. Draco had pointed out that Eugenia was not, in fact, a Muggle, but eventually gave into Harry’s arguments. Not every gift had to be magical and there was no reason the girl couldn’t have the best of both worlds. 

He smiled to himself as his eyes caught sight of a small package, wrapped in silver and green. Inside was a small silver teething ring in the shape of a snake. Harry didn’t have to know everything.

“Hey, you two,” he said, smiling as they turned towards the sound of his voice. “How are my two angels doing today?”

Rosie beamed and began to explain about the fort they were building. Eugenia caught Draco's eye and, giggling, swung her chubby arm, knocking the carefully stacked blocks to the ground. Rosie's distressed cry only made Eugenia giggle louder.

“That's what you get for calling my daughter an angel,” Pansy said dryly as she sidled up to Draco. 

Hermione, who had noticed the commotion, came rushing over, Teddy trailing at her heels. Rosie seized the opportunity for parental affection and began to cry, pointing an accusing finger at Eugenia and saying, “Meanie.”

Hermione scooped up her daughter and began to rock her in her arms. “I know dear, I know. Just like her mummy.” She shot a reproving glare at Pansy, who smiled sweetly. “I don't know what we're going to do when _that thing_ comes out,” she added, pointing at Pansy's distended stomach. “I don't think they've got a children's block at Azkaban yet.”

“Hey!” Draco cried. “I take offense to that; that's my son you're talking about, you know.” He had to stop himself from saying there was no way a Malfoy could ever land in prison, because, well, that simply wasn't true.

“Precisely,” Hermione snipped, turning to march away, her daughter still crying in her arms. She looked back over her shoulder and shot Draco a wink. He volleyed back with a rude gesture of his own.

Draco felt a tug on his trousers and looked down. Teddy beckoned to him, so he sank to one knee and leaned in so that he could hear Teddy’s whisper. “Gran says I'm too young to know,” Teddy said nervously, “but you'll tell me, won't you Cousin Draco?”

“Tell you what?”

“Where babies come from,” Teddy said. “How did your and Uncle Harry's baby get in Aunt Pansy's belly? Eugenia was the last baby in there at she was Uncle Nathaniel's. I just don't understand,” he added in frustration.

Draco sent a beseeching look for help up at Pansy, who had been trying very hard to look as though she wasn't eavesdropping. How could he explain the concept of surrogacy to a child? He had only learned the phrase “artificial insemination” a year ago himself, and he was an adult.

“Love,” Pansy said simply. She bent over and ruffled Teddy's hair. “Their baby got in my belly because of love.”

Teddy looked dubious. “That's what grown-ups always say,” he grumbled.

“Because it's true. Your Cousin Draco and Uncle Harry wanted a baby, but only girls can give birth – ”

“Why?” Teddy interrupted to ask.

“Because we're stronger,” Pansy answered dismissively. She then continued, “So I offered to help your Cousin Draco and Uncle Harry make a baby, because I love them. Well, because I love your Cousin Draco and think Uncle Harry is just fine. But the point is, their baby is inside of me because of love.”

Teddy didn't look pleased with this answer, but seemed to recognize that it was all he was going to get. He grumbled an insincere thanks and skulked away.

“I'm buying that boy an anatomy textbook for his next birthday,” Pansy said once Teddy was out of earshot. “He's really too old to be asking those sorts of questions. It makes everyone uncomfortable.”

“And I should buy you a dictionary,” Draco said. “Love?” he snorted. “I like how you neglected to mention the vault full of galleons you're getting.”

“We wouldn't want to confuse the poor child even more, now would we?” she asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Besides, it's only fair. You're getting your precious heir and I'm getting half your fortune. The Malfoy line continues and the disinherited Parkinson daughter retains her cushy life of leisure. And we didn't even have to go through the pretense of marriage!” she laughed. “Now, come on and help me to the kitchen, I'm going to murder everyone at this damn party if I don’t get something to eat right now.”

Harry was attending to the pots on the cooker when Draco and Pansy entered the kitchen. He set down his spoon and rushed to her side, helping Draco settle her into a seat at the table. “You two are worse than Nathaniel was with Eugenia,” Pansy complained. “I always thought I'd love to have men doting on me constantly, but it really is quite annoying.”

Harry laughed and returned to the pots and pans simmering on the stove top. “I really hope our son doesn't have your sparkling personality, Pansy,” he called out over his shoulder.

“He should be so lucky,” Pansy grumbled as she ripped a piece of bread from the loaf on the table and chucked it at Harry's head. “You should just be glad that there's no chance he'll have your hair.”

“Hey,” said Draco, trying to wrestle the loaf of bread from Pansy’s hands. She glared at him until he gave up. “I like Harry's hair.”

“Yes, well, there's no accounting for taste,” Pansy said as she stuffed a torn piece of bread into her mouth. “When is dinner going to be ready? Your son and I are starving.”

Draco ignored her and pressed himself against Harry's back. He wrapped his arms around Harry's waist and buried his face in the crook of his neck. “I like your hair,” he said quietly against Harry’s skin.

Harry turned his head so he could pressed a soft kiss to Draco's temple. “I like yours too,” he whispered back. “Happy Christmas, Draco.”

Draco turned his head and looked out through the open kitchen door, into the sitting room where their friends and family were gathered to celebrate the holiday together. It had taken a long time for them to get to this place, this precarious balance of multiple worlds, but in the end it felt like home. 

And it was a Happy Christmas, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Part I of II. Part II is in the final stages of revision and should be up in a few days.


End file.
